


Peeping Tom

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Dubious Consent, Erotic Horror, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gift Fic, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Some Humor, Suggestive Themes, This was supposed to be crack but I guess I am horrid at that, plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 23:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: “Tom.”Hermione blinked through the haze, confusion and something like annoyance replacing it.What did that even mean?“My name. It’s best you become familiar with it now because you will be screaming it rather shortly.”





	Peeping Tom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/gifts).



> This is a gift-fic for MrsRen.
> 
> I am not quite satisfied with it and you might find little issues here and there because I hate editing.
> 
> I thought this would end on a funnier note than it did, but it goes to show crack is tough.

It all began with one game. One that Hermione never wanted to play, but had no choice to participate in.

If she’d known that this would be how things ended, laying in a bed while the walls rattled with the force of her screams, well, she never would have stayed. She would have told both Harry and Ronald to shove their little Ouija board up their arses, and that would have been the end of it.

Except that wasn’t what she did.

No, she only wished she had.

Because rather than shoo them out of her house, or hell, disappear into her bedroom to curl with her cat like any sane person would have, she had _agreed_. She had placed her bloody _hand_ on the planchette and humored them, called out for some invisible entity to show them it was there.

And now, she had to live with the consequences.

* * *

 

“Are you certain about this?” Ron said, voice shaking with regret. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes, choosing instead to get comfortable on the couch where she’d chosen to sleep for the night. Normally, she’d be tucked away in her own bed, her millions of pillows fanning her head as she read one of her favorite books.

However, given that this was a sleepover and her turn to host it, she had to make do with what she had.

Not that the couch was all that bad. It wasn’t the worst place she’d slept in considering she’d been saddled with these two oafs for most of her childhood. No.  The real issue didn’t hinge on the location, but rather on what Harry and Ron had agreed to do while kneeling in the middle of her living room floor.

Harry had had the marvelous idea of playing with an ouija board, and Ron, being who he was, _agreed_ to that terrible idea. Truly, it was this that had her gnawing her lip and trying to settle the irritation burning in the pit of her stomach, not the fact that she wasn’t slumming it out with Crookshanks in her bedroom.

“Of course. Malfoy is full of shite if he actually thinks we’re not brave enough to play with an Ouija board.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, swearing beneath her breath. She should have known that this was the reason for his sudden interest in the occult. That it was _Malfoy_ that had planted this stupid idea, that had convinced her friend to play with a bloody ouija board on a Saturday night when they could have been doing much more productive things. Like,  _chess_ for instance.

Hell, anything would have been better than this.

“B-but what if, y’know, we summon something? What if it—”

A scoff rumbled out of her throat before she could stop it, and both Ron and Harry’s heads snapped in her direction. It was the first time they’d looked at her since they’d proposed this stupid idea. She didn’t bother trying to hide the look of annoyance twisting her lips into a frown.

“That you will summon what? A _demon_? The bloody _tooth fairy_? That’s rubbish, Ronald.”

The redhead's cheeks went a bright red, his eyes sparkling with anger. Hermione couldn’t find it within herself to care. Both of them were driving her bloody _mad_ with this nonsense.

“Well, if you’re so _sure_ that they’re not real then why don’t you join us? What’s the harm? Or are you too scared that you might not know everything?” Ron hissed, and Hermione bristled, shoving her pillow from off her lap and sliding over to where they were. She snatched the planchette from off the board, trying not to groan at the fact the whole thing had already been set up, before she leveled Ron with a fierce glower.

“Well, if that’s how you’re going to be—”

“‘Mione,” Harry interrupted, raising both hands as if trying to pacify an enraged beast. He wouldn’t be far from his assessment, really. Hermione certainly _felt_ like one. She was straddling a fine line, her hands itching to wring Ron’s neck in much the same way she was death gripping the planchette.

“You know he doesn’t mean it. He’s scared, is all.”

Ron made to protest, a sputtering sound ripping from his throat, but at Harry’s censuring look, he clicked his jaw shut. Hermione was far from satisfied from this turn of events, however.

Nothing short of an apology would suffice.

“Look, ‘Mione. I get it. This isn’t what you had in mind when we agreed to this whole sleepover to catch up on all those weeks we won’t see one another, but I promise it will only be for a little while. When will we have the chance to see one another after tonight, you know?”

Hermione softened, her anger melting away at the way Harry smiled, pressing a hand on both her and Ron’s shoulder.

He was right. The whole purpose of the sleepover was to catch up, to let loose and have a good laugh before returning to their hectic lives. They were all starting university at different parts of the world—their futures no longer as linked as it once used to be.

It was for this reason alone that she relaxed her shoulders, heaving a great sigh and throwing Ron a tight-lipped smile without bothering to get Ron’s apology. She’d let it go, for now. It honestly wasn’t worth the bad feelings to pick a fight when this might be the last time they all saw one another for some time.

“Alright. I’ll play along. But after this, we’re doing something of my _own_ choosing, understood?”

Harry smiled, green eyes glimmering with delight and mischief.

“You hear that, Ron. We’re going to get Hermione to talk to some _demons_.”

The ashen expression that spread over Ron’s face was enough to make Hermione choke in laughter, her hand pressing into her mouth to stop the hideous guffaws that tried to escape. It was just priceless, really. Ron looked as though someone had slipped spiders into his bed.

“Yes, we’re going to talk to some great, evil _monsters_. Possibly trade our souls while we’re at it too. Aren’t you excited, Ron?”

Harry doubled over, his laughter like music to her ears, while Ron whimpered. If there was one thing more enjoyable than sitting back and reading a good book, it was picking on Ron. Watching his expressive eyes go wide as saucers with horror was one of her favorite pastimes.

Ron had no bloody idea what he’d just done, and Hermione’s spine was trembling with mischievous glee when he looked at both her and Harry with a look of total betrayal. She wasn’t about to ruin the night by spending it angry with the redhead, but she could definitely make her evening more interesting by scaring the poor bastard.

Her night was starting to look up.

* * *

 

“Are you sure this the right way to do this?” Harry asked, head nearly knocking into Hermione’s when he leaned in closer to peer at the board. Hermione glared at him, miffed, swaying her head away from his just in the nick of time.

That had been close. _Too_ , bloody close.

“Yes, the instructions indicate that we all should touch the planchette together. And—” Harry’s fingers found the planchette before she finished, her eyes rolling at Harry’s good-natured grin “—yes, that’s it exactly.”

A slow smile crept over her face, emboldened by the delight in Harry’s eyes, in spite of her reservations with this whole thing. She didn’t believe in the supernatural—let alone the _afterlife_ —but there was something about Harry’s eagerness that always managed to sway her, to get her to go along with his silly ideas even when she’d rather claw her very eyes than do it.

But alas, that was the power Harry Potter possessed.

Ron stretched his arm after, snapping Hermione out of her thoughts. Ron was wedged between her and Harry’s body on the floor, his shoulders bumping into theirs.

But that was not what drew her gaze. No.

It was the fact that his hand had never made it to the planchette. His hand stopped, fingers hovering inches above Harry’s hand. It was comical, the way his cheeks had lost the bit of color it normally had—his veins a bright blue beneath his translucent skin.

Hermione’s lip twitched.

 _Ah_ , Hermione thought, her teeth biting into the inside of her cheek when a grin threatened to stretch over her face, _he’s getting cold feet._

After describing in disturbing detail just what might happen if one were to be possessed by demons, Harry’s generous descriptions of the affair giving that fairy tale a bit of credibility, Ron didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic as he had been earlier. It hadn’t been the original plan when she’d first agreed to do this. Harry and she had agreed to _prank_ their lovable friend, but—

Hermione really had to give it to Harry. Describing a gruesome murder _was_ a bit much, even for her. But, given Ron’s less than pleasant jab at her earlier in the evening, Hermione wasn’t feeling nearly as kind as she might have on another occasion.

 _It serves him right_ , a malicious thought purred in Hermione’s head. It was the same vindictive voice that had spurred her on to crush laxatives into Pansy Parkinson’s drink after their little altercation back in Year 10. The same vicious voice that often lead her a bit astray.

“Come on, Ron. We don’t have all night,” Hermione chirped, a vicious smile curling over her lips when Ron hesitated once again, his eyes flickering to Harry’s face as if asking for help. Harry’s snort nearly undid Hermione’s self-control. Harry wasn’t going to get him out of this one.

Noticing, then, that Harry was _not_ about to help him, Ron closed his eyes as if pained and pressed a finger onto the planchette, his arm shaking visibly.

Hermione was thrilled.

“Alright. Not that we’re all in, we have to slide the planchette over to the letter ‘g’.”

Harry smiled at her, while Ron, still with his eyes clamped shut, nodded in his assent, his lip trembling so badly Hermione wondered if she’d effectively silenced Ron for most of the evening.

With a gentle push from her end, they slid the planchette over to the letter. No one spoke as she did so. Ron, to her utter disappointment, remained resolutely silent. That was not the reaction she had been expecting.

Normally, while scared stiff, Ron always found the opportunity to say _something_ , even if it was brief or a joke to lighten the situation. Hell, at the very _least_ , she had expected Ron to chime in and call it quits completely. The whole purpose of Hermione’s little prank, really, was to bring Ron over to her side and avoid this whole charade of _talking to ghosts._

 _Oh well_.

She might not be able to get out of playing along with this whole supernatural nonsense, but at least, she could derive some amusement at Ron’s expense for getting her into this mess in the first place. It wasn’t a _complete_ waste.

“N-now what?” Ron chimed in, voice so small Hermione could barely hear it while sitting beside him. It was like music to her ears.

“We ask a question and just press our fingers over the planchette. If there’s something here— _which I very much doubt_ —then it’ll move to answer our questions,” Hermione said, casting a sharp glance at Harry who’s lips spread into an innocent smile that fooled _no one_. If he kept grinning like that, Ron would catch on to the prank.

_Honestly._

“Because I don’t trust either of you to ask proper questions, I’ll do it. Just tell me what it is you want to ask, and we can go from there.” _And hopefully move on to more interesting things rather than sitting on my bloody floor_ , Hermione finished in her head.

“Alright. Great, let’s do this,” Harry said with a grin.

There was a pause, neither of them saying a word. Harry had gone quiet, his eyes distant as if he were trying to snatch up the perfect question for the occasion. Ron was just terrified, really.

Hermione wasn’t about to wait all bloody night for them to come up with a question.

“Who’s here?” Hermione asked, tone stiff with her impatience.

Nothing happened. The planchette didn’t move. It was as still as stone, the sweat of their fingers smearing over it. Hermione tried not to make a face at that.

_Gross._

“Guess there’s nobody home?” Ron chirped, sounding more animated and alive than he’d been moments before. Hermione chortled, rolling her eyes. She wasn’t surprised. Now that the threat had been effectively neutralized in some sense, Ron was back to his old self.

 _How very like him_.

“Seems like there’s no demons or ghosts to speak to,” Hermione said, making to remove her hands now that she had effectively proven just how _stupid_ this all was, but something in Harry’s face stopped her before she could.

It was a brief lapse of judgment from her part, but it was all the opportunity Harry needed. She should have known—that gleam of determination in his eye should have been warning enough.

“Can anyone show us they’re here? Give us a sign?”

Annoyance swept through her, her lips thinning into a line when Harry made a point to _ignore_ her. It seemed, that while Hermione had her own little agenda, Harry had had one of his own. Harry was not about to bloody give up, after all. He could be quite stubborn when he wanted to be, the set of his jaw and the hard set of his eyes reminiscent of the looks she herself gave.

_Damn._

“Come on, Harry. There’s nothing here!” She hissed through clenched teeth.

There was a pause, her voice melting into unfathomable silence.

Then, as if in response to her declaration, which was simply _absurd_ in her opinion, the planchette began to move, sliding away from the “g” and toward the “yes” on board.

A chill swept up her spine before she stamped down the emotion as quickly as it had come.

It wasn’t _real_.

How convenient was it that once _Harry_ asked a question, the planchette began to move?  What were the _odds_? Suspicion quickly swallowed up her unease, her teeth biting into her cheek.

Hermione didn’t announce her suspicions, however. Instead, she held her tongue, eyes appraising the way Ron’s eyes had popped open, his lips trembling with unmistakable fear.

_Ah._

Hermione understood it now. Harry was trying to keep the game going.

Good thing she hadn’t say anything.

“H-harry?” Ron choked out, and Hermione sighed, placing a warm hand over his shoulder. He was quivering, no, _trembling_ like a leaf. A whisper of guilt began to unfurl in her stomach when Ron shrank into her side, seeking both protection and comfort on her side.

Hermione hesitated, doubt rearing its ugly head in her mind for the first time that evening. Ron was scared. _Terrified._  She’d have to be blind not to notice. He might have upset her earlier but, did he deserve this?

Was this prank necessary? Truly? Perhaps, they both might be taking things too far. Her lips pinched with guilt.

“It wasn’t me.”

Hermione lifted a single brow when Harry’s furrowed brows, confusion swimming in his gaze that Hermione refused to believe. He _had_ to have done something. She knew she hadn’t moved the planchette, for one. And Ron, well,  with the look of terror on his face, Ron couldn’t have done it either.

Ron was a horrid liar.

“Well, ask it another question then. It seems like it only wants to answer to you,” Hermione said, hoping that her tone was enough to convey how much she disapproved. She was done with this game, and if Harry didn’t start fessing up, well, she would have to do it _for_ him.

Harry bit his lip, eyes glancing between Hermione and Ron and back, before he slumped, a frown on his face, and hunched over the board.

“Show us. Do something that proves you’re real.”

A choking sound escaped Ron’s lips, and Hermione squeezed his shoulder harder, in the hopes that he would derive some semblance of comfort from the gesture. It was the least she could do after she’d scared the utter piss out of him.

There was a moment where none of them spoke.

Hermione waited, allowing the silence to spread through them, before she opened her mouth, to point out for Ron’s sake that there _wasn’t_ a ghost, to tell Harry to _quit_ it already and allow them to move on to far more pleasant things—

A loud thump above their heads made the words die in her throat.

Ron screamed, tearing from beneath her grip. Stunned, Hermione remained where she was sitting on the floor, her eyes bouncing between Harry’s pinched expression, the ceiling, and Ron’s back as he wedged himself between the television and the coat rack near the front door, an umbrella in hand that he’d somehow snatched from beside the front door.

“What the fuck was that?” Harry said, after a beat. Hermione didn’t reply, her thoughts racing a mile a minute as she struggled to come up with a response that could satisfy Ron, Harry, and ultimately, herself.

The explanation didn’t come no matter how hard she struggled to explain away the event. She didn’t have housemates, and rarely did she have any visitors. Even with this being her parents home in all senses of the term, given that they _paid and maintained_ it, Hermione had been living on her own—her parents more absent than not. She might as well have been living alone with how little she saw of them in the latter part of her life.

Hermione, with a slow tilt of her jaw, turned to the stairs. Surely, there couldn’t be someone in her house?

Like lightning in a darkened room, an explanation formed. One more plausible, explainable, and equally terrifying.

 _Of course_ , Hermione thought, nerves still singing in her blood despite the realization. There’d been a series of break-ins in the neighborhood in the last week so it wasn’t entirely implausible, that someone had broken into her home? Surely?

But—

The room had dropped several degrees in an instant, her arms puckering with gooseflesh. Hermione’s breaths stuttered to a stop, something like unease, she couldn’t be sure, churning in her stomach. None of them had turned down the thermostat. They’d been piled on the floor the entire time.

_Silly, there’s no such thing as ghosts._

“...I don’t know. Do you think someone could have broken into my house?”

With a shuddering breath, Hermione turned back to Harry, unsure of what the best course of action was. She’d never been the victim of a break-in before, and there were just some things that one couldn’t _read_ in a book.

All thoughts of a potential supernatural entity being in her house were promptly dismissed.

Harry’s lips pressed into a line, eyes going distant as he thought about her question. Ron didn’t so much as whimper, too terrified to contribute anything of substance for the moment.

“Do you want to check it out?” Harry said, and Hermione cast a wary glance to the stairs, considering.

The smarter strategy, of course, was to call 9-9-9, get out of the house, and be done with it. Have the police handle this sort of shite since that was essentially their job. However, if it turned out that it was _not_ a burglar—

Hermione didn’t want to consider the consequences of calling the police when there was nothing amiss, having heard enough from her yearmates about what happened to those that made fake calls to the authorities. It was risky, to act without being certain. And the last thing Hermione needed before starting school was a record, no less.

“Yeah, let’s go ahead. For all we know, it could just be _Crooks_. I haven’t seen him yet.”

Hermione rose from her seat, pajama bottoms dragging on the floor as she made her way to the coffee table shoved against the wall of her living room. She snatched a butter knife Ron had left lying on it, still smeared with jam from when he’d made sandwiches.

It wasn’t her weapon of choice, but it would have to do. If she or Harry turned into the kitchen, they would be leaving the front door unguarded. And well, if there _was_ a burglar, in fact, in her house, their oversight would give the criminal a solid means of escape.

Hermione wasn’t going to take any chances.

“You coming, Ron?” Harry asked, and Hermione glanced in the redhead’s direction, already knowing what his answer would be before he said it.

“I-I’ll stay right here,” Ron squeaked, his voice so high it made Hermione wince. “And guard the door while you both check the second floor.”

 _Well, that settled that_.

“Are you sure? You’re going to be alone down here?” Hermione pointed out, watching how his shoulders shook, his hair a bird’s nest on his head. The bright blue of his eyes stared her, the whites blinking at her in the shadowed corner of the room. She could tell he didn’t appreciate her pointing out this small fact, but well—

It wasn’t far from the truth.

“No, I’m staying right here.”

There was a stubborn set to Ron’s jaw. The same one she had when she was not about to concede an argument, and she shook her head. There was no getting him to come along. Just as she thought.

Hermione didn’t wait for Harry before heading toward the stairs, socked feet silent as she crossed the space and began her ascent up. The steps creaked with her steps, but Hermione didn’t comment, listening to the soft thumps of Harry’s footsteps trailing behind her.

It unnerved her, the stillness that fell around them as she maneuvered her way up the stairs, but she made no attempt to say as much to Harry. She was the one holding the knife, after all. By all accounts, she should be ready and willing to fight off whoever could be in her home, but—

She’d never been in a physical fight before. One might be tempted to count the time she slugged Malfoy in the face back in 10th year, but that been one time and her hand had smarted for the rest of the day after that.  And since then, she’d never had the need to punch someone in the face, even if the urge did arise every so often.

They reached the top of the stairs within moments, the air stagnant and ice cold. It made her movements slow into a halt, her arms rippling with gooseflesh.

The hallway was bathed in darkness, the window in the far end of the hallway completely black. It was so black, in fact, that Hermione had to squint to make out the outlines of the doors on either side of the wall.

She released a shuddering breath, the sound shattering the almost holy silence that had fallen in the room after her footsteps had stopped. Not even Harry’s presence was much of a comfort.

Brandishing the knife, ensuring in half a second’s time that it was firmly attached to her hand, she began to walk, her heart racing in her chest when neither Harry’s footsteps nor her own could be heard in the carpeted hall. They were no longer bound by the creaks and moans of the stairs, but by the constraints of a carpeted floor and a dark hallway.

For the first time that night, Hermione was _afraid_.

Neither of them spoke as they moved, and Hermione almost wished that Harry did, at least once. The silence weighed heavily over shoulders, her arm trembling despite her sure grip on the knife as she turned to the first door on her left, breath caught in her throat.

There was a pause where neither she nor Harry moved, a chill settling over her bones that definitely had not been there when they first arrived, before she pushed it open.

The door didn’t creak, and for that, Hermione was grateful.

The room was darker than the hallway, the corners and the fixtures in her parents’ bedroom inscrutable even when she squinted. She tried not to let that give her pause.

_Come on Granger. Get a bloody grip._

With a slow roll of her shoulders, Hermione slid her free hand against the wall. She knew where precisely the light switch was. After years of living here, of growing up rushing up to her parents’ room with her report card, she’d have to be daft not to.

Her fingers found it instantly, and with a jerk, her eyes closing, already anticipating the flash of white light, she held her knife out, ready to defend herself if someone came bounding at them.

At Harry’s low curse, Hermione opened her eyes, ready to defend her friend and anticipating the worst of the situation.

The room was empty, and Harry, she tried not to laugh aloud at the scowl on his face, had his hand pressed up against his eye. She’d blinded him when she’d turned the light on without warning, it seemed.

_Oops._

Casting him an apologetic glance she knew he wasn’t going to see, but did anyway for the principle of it, Hermione surveyed the room.

Everything was as her parents had left it. Their clothes were piled on the bed from when they’d rushed into the house, a cursing on her mum’s tongue when they were told their flight was _delayed_ for their conference in Spain as she bounded into the kitchen to get her and dad’s bags in order.

Hermione could almost see that moment, could see her dad rushing out of the bathroom, the door wide open as he tried to tame his wild curls. The same curls she herself loved and hated at the same time.

Hermione stepped further into the room, peering into the bathroom to scope out whether someone could be hiding in the shower, before dismissing the ludicrous thought. She had a direct view of the bathroom from her angle, so unless the burglar was _invisible_ , there wasn't anyone in there.

Hermione’s shoulders dropped with her relief, thanking her parents in her mind for leaving that door open before they’d left. The suspense of having to listen through that door before opening it would have killed her.

“Alright. We’ve still got your room,” Harry said after a beat of silence, his voice a whisper. Hermione nodded, her skin prickling when she felt rather than saw Harry move behind her, his departure stirring the air behind her. She felt his loss acutely, like his absence had taken the last bit of warmth still clinging to her bones.

There was no way she was sticking around here by herself.

With one final look into the room, Hermione turned, ignoring the way her the same unease rippled through her once again at leaving the familiar glow of her parent’s bedroom.

The darkness in the hall was left severe this time, what with the parent’s bedroom lending them a bit of illumination, but Hermione still felt those shadows grip over her senses, her discomfort refusing to abate even when she caught the outline of Harry’s back in the black.

He was standing in front of her bedroom door, and Hermione, unwilling to linger longer than what was required in the shadowy hall, eclipsed the short distance between them.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins in anticipation when Harry turned to her, pressing a finger to his lips in the universal sign of ‘silence.’

There was only one possible place the burglar could be.

If they hadn’t seen anyone in her parent’s room, the attic was inaccessible without a key to let someone in, and the single linen closet on the second floor was packed to bursting: the burglar was in her bedroom.

Unless the intruder could shrink to about the size of a small child to fit into that crawl space in her closet or walk through walls, there was nowhere else the bastard could have gone.

“Harry…” Hermione said, her hand pressing onto to give his shoulder a squeeze. “Take my knife. If you’re going to head in first, it’d be best to be prepared.”

She found Harry’s right hand in the dark, his fingertips like ice as she tucked the weapon into his hand, curling his fingers around the metal. She tried not to think about how fast his heart was racing within her palms, if she did, she’d lose her nerve.

“Okay,” Harry said after a beat, his voice so low that even with how close she was standing behind him, she had to strain to hear him.

“On the count of three.”

Hermione’s shoulders straightened, her stomach in knots as her insides curled with adrenaline. Harry shifted his stance, and Hermione did as well, positioning her feet on the floor to appear more steady than she was feeling. If they had to fight, then she’d be more than ready for it.

“One.”

The word was more a hiss coming from between her clenched teeth. It melted into the loud thrum of her heart beating in her chest.

“Two.”

She swallowed thickly, mouth dry as the palms of her hands began to sweat. She was terrified— _nervous_ —of what was to come.

“ _Three_.”

Harry shoved the door open with a loud bang, and Hermione slinked around him, her hand snapping the light on.

This time, she hadn’t closed her eyes, her attention more consumed by the potential threat of a trespasser brandishing a knife than the sting of light blinding her.

Her eyes snapped shut with a hiss, her eyes watering from the brightness. She blinked furiously through the dark spots, willing her vision to return so she could _see_ , to back Harry up if he needed her.

It didn’t take her long to recover, the sound of Harry’s frantic footsteps— _or was that her heart? She couldn’t be sure_ —echoing in the room.

When Hermione’s vision cleared, it was to a familiar sight. Her bed was made, the silky lavender sheets untouched. Just as she’d left it that morning.

There were papers and folders piled on her desk on the left-hand corner, and her bookshelf was packed to the brim. It was ready to cave under the weight of her books, the mahogany scuffed from years of wear and tear.

Everything looked as it should.

A sound, like a frustrated huff, echoed in the room, and Hermione’s eyes snapped to Harry’s, drawn in by the way his shoulders began to shake.

He was standing in front of her bathroom door on the wall adjacent to the doorway she’d come through, the knife slack in hand.

Concern churned in the pit of her stomach.

“Well.”

Hermione jolted at the abruptness of Harry’s voice, his head turning around to look at her with the most frustrated expression Hermione had ever seen in her life. His brows were furrowed, his lip pressed into a thin line; a face Hermione had seen countless times on her own face when looking in the mirror.

“Well, at least we know where Crookshanks has been spending his time this evening.”

Hermione blinked, the words not quite registering in her brain, and then—

The furry head of her cat poked from outside the door, the picture of innocence on his feline face.

_Oh._

A high-pitched sound crawled out of her throat, unbidden. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes from the intensity, a sudden wave of nervous laughter consuming her.  Harry blinked at her, in shock, before his own lips twitched and melted into a grin of his own that he could not contain.

The tension smoothed as if it had never been, her face burning with embarrassment and humor. Her sides were killing her.

_Oh gods, really?_

“D-d-don’t tell Ron that, Harry. He might just burst a blood vessel over this,” Hermione guffawed, the warm curl of amusement spreading from her diaphragm and up her chest. She hadn’t laughed this hard since she’d been hit on by McLaggen on _LinkedIn_ a few months back. Hell, she’d never thought herself capable of laughing this hard in her bloody _life_.

She’d never been happier to see her cat.

At Harry’s choked laugh, his face going red, Hermione doubled over, unable to stop the giggles from bubbling out of her lips.

 _Gods_ , she thought, her throat beginning to ache.

 _To think, we’d nearly lost our bloody minds over my_ cat.

* * *

 

The rest of the evening went off without a hitch after that nearly pissing their pants. It had taken them an embarrassing amount of time to recover, but they had managed.

They didn’t touch the ouija board again, in fact. Hermione dumped it into the trash where it belonged upon returning from her and Harry’s excursion upstairs with Crookshanks in tow.

Ron had not been thrilled that he’d lost himself because of her cat, that the supposed demon he’d been terrified was going to suck out his soul, had been her cat.

It was glorious to witness it first hand, to see his face twist with frustration and a flush paint itself across his cheeks. Almost to his hairline, in fact.

Hermione was bloody dying of laughter at the sight, unable to curb the laughter that seized her, rendering her entirely speechless. Her chest was aching with it, but she couldn’t stop.

Not when Ron’s scandalized bright blues were more warming than any cup of Earl Grey could ever be.

* * *

 

Ron and Harry were gone the very next morning, leaving Hermione to an empty house and an irritable cat.

There was no mess to clean, not when she’d hounded the boys that same morning to pick up after themselves. The last time they’d tried to leave her house without lifting a finger to do the dishes and throw out the empty boxes of pizza, Hermione had nearly been forced to smack them both across the head with the thickest book she owned.

But that hadn’t been necessary, of course. With a silent lift her chin and a vicious smile, a wordless promise of violence that her friends had come to know, they complied.

Hermione slipped into the kitchen, Crookshanks following behind her as she rummaged through the cabinets for cat food. He had a schedule, one that she followed religiously for both her and the cat’s sake.

He could be a pest when he wished to be, yowling and swiping at her, insistent that he be fed _immediately_. It made her scoff at the thought, her hand grabbing onto a can of wet food as she did. One would think that she was starving the poor dear with how he behaved.

Hermione fed him more than she should, in all honesty. He was fat, round, and mean-looking. Just like that American cartoon with the ginger-haired cat obsessed with Lasagna. She couldn’t just comply with his every whim.

_“Meow.”_

Hermione sighed, resting the can on the counter to level Crookshanks with a measured look.

_Impatient little bugger._

“Relax, Crooks, it’s coming.”

The cat did not respond to her concessions, but Hermione didn’t anticipate one. The day that Crookshanks actually talked back would be the day she officially committed herself to a mental institution.

Opening the can was a quick process. She tugged it open with a loud pop and the grind of metal on metal. She tried not to grimace when the strong stench of fish flooded her senses.

_Gods, that stuff was horrid._

Crookshanks curled around her legs, the sound of the can opening—or maybe the smell, Hermione couldn’t be sure—propelling him to move around her ankles.

A smirk curled over her lip at the affection,  and then she was dumping the entire contents into the bowl. Then, she was sliding it over to the floor, right beside the water bowl.

Crookshanks was on it in seconds, not bother to wait for her to put the thing down.

Hermione stood, cooing softly at her cat before stepping away from him to give him his space. After years with him, she knew better than to pet him while he ate. There were days that he allowed it, but others—

Hermione still had scars to show for it.

 _Smash_.

Hermione jolted, tripping over her feet when something she swore sounded like glass shattered in the living room. With a hand pressing against her chest, Hermione let a heavy breath to dispel the nerves biting up her spine.

Slowly, after she’d managed to settle the vicious churning in her stomach, she started towards the living room, already dreading what she was going to find.

She passed under the entrance to the kitchen, eyes scanning the space for the source of the noise.

_Huh._

Hermione’s shoulders slumped, brows furrowing with confusion.

A picture frame was lying face down on the ground. She stepped closer, catching the twinkle of broken glass in the carpet surrounding the frame.

Hermione swore, stopping dead in her tracks to rake her fingers through her unruly hair, and rush back into the kitchen for a broom and dustpan to clean it up before her cat decided to explore the new terrain.

The last thing she needed out of this whole shite was a trip to the vet. Her cat could be too damnably curious when he wanted to be.

Hermione didn’t waste any time.

Upon her return to the living room with a dustpan and broom, Hermione kneeled on the floor, casting a wary glance through the corners of her eyes at her cat to make sure he was still stuffing his face.

 _Good_.

Hermione began collecting shards, already anticipating that this was going to be a nightmare. Getting glass out of carpet was a pain in the arse. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to clean up glass when her cat was in one of his mischievous moods, but toss it all—

It just had to be bloody _carpet_. It couldn’t have just landed on the hardwood floor?

She ran her fingers over the tufts of it, her nose wrinkling when small insects poked their beady eyes out from the fabric. Fighting off a wave of disgust, Hermione flicked the creatures away, not quite having the heat to squish them, before fishing out more pieces of glass from the carpet.

Most of the early afternoon was spent this way. Cursing both the fact that she owned a cat who _would_ be curious enough to nose his way into the carpet and her parents for buying this ugly thing in the first place.

She didn’t know how long she was kneeling on the floor, but guessing from the ache deep in her knees, it was quite some time. Her knees were on _fire_ from being forced to sit in the same position for more than an hour. Her back was killing her, and her neck was so sore she knew for a fact she’d need a hot bath to get rid of the knots that’d formed between her shoulder blades.

But it was done. She managed to get all the glass out, and she could relax knowing that Crookshanks wasn’t about to choke on a piece of glass.

Hermione cast a wary glance to the frame, taking note that all the glass shards were in the innermost part of the dustpan. Satisfied that everything was in working order, Hermione lifted the frame.

A frustrated huff let her lips.

It was a picture of her, Ron, and Harry after a football game. And, Hermione groaned, swearing something foul beneath her breath, the picture was completely ruined.

There were scarf marks all over the picture, Ron and Harry’s face completely sounded out. Her face hadn’t taken much damage, but it was still a shame that she had to throw it out the whole thing now. There was no salvaging it.

So with great reluctance, Hermione shoved the photo into the dustpan and stood up.

It was such a shame.

That one had been her favorite.

* * *

 

Gooseflesh rippled over her arms when Hermione undressed, toeing off her socks and turning on the hot water in her tub. A cold breeze was seeping through the crack of her door, but Hermione didn’t dare close it.

Crooks had a tendency to get fussy when she denied him access to parts of the house, and the bathroom was an especially sore point for him.

Hermione huffed, eyes rolling, as she sat on the toilet, waiting for the tub to fill. It was more than a little uncomfortable to sit there naked, given that typically, she was often grabbing her clothes and the like as she let the water run.

But not tonight.

Her pajamas were already laid out on the sink with her fluffy shoes on the floor in front of it. And, _gods_ , she was just so tired. The smell of her eucalyptus bath salts was only compounding the effect.

After cleaning up that glass in the living room, she’d spent the rest of the day packing and getting herself settled for school. She had to take her entire closet with her, after all. And then, of course, there was the thing about the books. She couldn’t possibly just leave them behind.

Well, she couldn’t leave behind her _favorites_ , which was truly half the battle. Trying to pick and choose the ones she should take was more than half the battle. It had consumed most of her afternoon and part of the evening.

She still wasn’t quite sure she was done.

Banishing the thought of the work that was left to be done, unwilling and uninterested in working herself into a tizzy when she was trying to relax, Hermione glanced at the tub.

A smile tugged on her lips when the tub was more than a quarter full. There was steam rising from the water, hot enough to scald if it hit direct skin.

She adjusted the tabs until the water was lukewarm, fingers dipping to feel it out.

She snatched her hand back with a hiss.

That wasn’t the brightest of decisions from her part. She recognized it, but damn it, she was getting tired of waiting while completely starkers in her bathroom.

With a sigh, Hermione sank back onto the toilet, her fingers drumming over her jaw. She tried to focus on the thick scent of eucalyptus and steam that flooded her lungs with each breath she took rather than her impatience.

_Just a little longer._

Drinking in the smell, Hermione let herself relax. Her eyes began to droop, her shoulders fall, her exhaustion hitting her all at once.

 _In and out_.

Hermione breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, and Hermione’s thoughts began to fade, scatter. Her racing mind slowed, too, the white noise of the water running soothing to her ears.

She hardly noticed when she closed her eyes.

“ _Hermione.”_

A cold breeze curled over the nape of her neck, and Hermione shuddered, eyes blinking open with confusion because she couldn’t remember when she’d closed them—

There was someone standing in front of her. A shape that was too tall and dark to exist, to be real, and yet—

Hermione scrambled back, bottles of hair products and brushes tumbling to the ground behind her when she smashed her back into the steel shelf behind her.

The figure didn’t move. It was rooted in its place, tall and imposing and Hermione couldn’t breathe. Her breaths came short and shallow, her hand smacking behind her for purchase, for _something_ to defend herself with because—

_Oh god, how had they gotten in?_

She turned, cursing herself when she dropped more bottles and containers to the ground, terrified that it’d attack the second she turned her back.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—_

Her fingers caught around her razor, and she turned, ready to defend herself, half-blind with fear.

The figured had vanished.

Hermione blinked, a terrified laugh crawling up her esophagus. Her fingers were trembling, the skin of her brows pinched with concern.

The water was still running, but Hermione hardly registered the sound. It was no longer comforting. The scent of eucalyptus and steam would not chase away the livewire running from her tailbone to her brain stem.

Slowly, she rose from where she’d collapsed against the toilet and shelf, her hands holding her razor, in what she hoped was a threatening manner.

She shuffled out of the bathroom, naked as the day she was born, not bothering to grab a towel when someone could be in her _bloody_ house.

Upon entering her bedroom, Hermione was struck immediately with mounds of clothes and books she’d flung on the floor while packing. It was an utter mess. An organized mess, but it looked precisely as she’d left it.

Her eyes flickered to her bedroom door, but that too, was shut.

The room was empty of figures and shadows. Her bed was still made, lavender sheets and her desk still stuffed to the point of collapse with books. The only thing of note was he dying sunlight still streaming through her window on the opposite side of her room and the mess she’d left in it.

She released a shuddering breath she hadn’t known she was holding upon finding her bedroom door locked. As was custom when home alone and about to spend several hours in her tub.

_Okay._

Hermione closed her eyes to calm the adrenaline pooling in her stomach. There was no one there. The door was locked, and if someone really had ripped out of her bathroom in the time it’d taken her to rush into her room, the door would have had to be open.

And, the door didn’t _close_ from the outside. Only Hermione could set the lock from the inside.

_There’s no one here, Hermione. Get a grip._

With that thought, Hermione let her arm fall to her side, her wrist slapping her thigh. Her shoulders relaxed, her body releasing all the pent-up energy with each exhale of her lungs.

The water from the tub was still running. She could make it out while standing in the middle of her room, demanding that she return, urging her to take a dip to ease the stresses of the day—

The sound of droplets hitting tile made her pause, and then curse.

“Fuck.”

Hermine ran back to the bathroom, hoping to god that it hadn’t been what she thought she heard.

 _No luck_ , Hermione thought with a clench of her jaw.

The tub was overflowing, little streams running from over its edges like tiny rivers.

Hermione shut off the taps, body kneeling over the side of the tub to plunge her fingers into the water to yank out the stopper and drain some of the water.

There was already a mess, so there was no doubt in her mind that she’d have to spend most of the damn evening cleaning it up, but it was better to stop it now before the water made it all the way to her bedroom.

Whirlpools curled over the black hole in the tub after she’d yanked the chain, taunting her, mocking her, with each bit of eucalyptus it took with it. There were still chunks at the bottom where the salt had yet to melt, and Hermione bit her cheek hard enough to cut.

_Damn it._

Her plans for a relaxing evening had gone out in smoke.

Much like the shadow had.

* * *

 

Hermione sighed, curling her fingers into her curls for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

She’d managed to clean up the mess in the bathroom, but it had come at a price. She lost the time she’d planned to spend reading her well-loved novel in the tub _and_ a better half of the evening she dedicated to laying in bed with that same book.

It was nearly midnight, and Hermione was utterly exhausted. There was no way she could concentrate on _reading_ at this time of night. Especially when Crookshanks had decided he was going to sleep in the couch downstairs rather than the pillow she always left for him on her bed.

She didn’t know what his deal was, really. He’d almost bloody _clawed_ her eyes out when she tried to bring him upstairs.

 _Rude_.

Hermione flung herself into the bed, brow twitching with annoyance at her still stinging arms. He might not have gotten her eyes, but he’d definitely dug his nails into the meat of her forearms. It was a good thing they were shallow, she didn’t need an _infection_ on top of everything, with how the day had been going.

Hermione wasn’t willing to speak that into the universe, however. With her rotten luck, she wouldn’t be surprised if she woke up the next morning with Crookshank’s scratches oozing yellow pus and stinking of infection.

Banishing the thought, Hermione tugged at the comforter with her arms and a kick of her legs before settling into them. Her pillows were fanning around her head, and Hermione arranged them to lay comfortably over the back of her head.

It was quiet in her room, the nightlight her mum had given her as a little girl, glowing a faint yellow.

She settled deeper into her sheets, forcing her breaths to relax in spite of her irritation. She was tired— _no_ , exhausted.

Hermione turned on her side, fingers splaying over the side of her bed, to no avail. She wasn’t getting comfortable no matter which side she lied on, the springs and something just tugging her away from that blessed state of nothing.

Another huff left her, the sound quickly morphing into an annoyed groan. Hermione shifted again, now lying on her stomach with her fingers over the edge of the bed.

_Yes. Perfect._

Her body melted into the sheets below, her eyes drooping closed with a satisfied smile.

And that was when she felt it.

It was a slow trickle of unease at first. The same sensation one felt when they were being looked at through a lens, pinned into a board and inspected with a sharpened blade digging into its sternum.

Gooseflesh broke out along her arms, and she snuggled deeper into her sheets to chase it away, unwilling to give credence to that skin crawling sensation.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, mouth going dry when the sensation only increased, became an unbearable itch she desperately wanted to _scratch—_

Hermione flung her sheets away, kicking them back until the cool air bit into her skin, the chill like the icy fingers of the grim reaper scoring across her flesh.

Unease bloomed in her stomach. The kind that she’d only felt once, as a child, when her mother had told her that the boogeyman wasn’t real, that he _wouldn’t_ come skulking into her bedroom and reach for her toes when her leg hung out from the edge of the bed—

A nervous laugh bubbled up her throat, the sound more a squeak of a mouse, as she glanced into the shadows dancing on the floor of her bed, the nightlight calming some of the unwarranted nerves whispering in the back of her head.

 _Nothing’s there. Relax_ , Hermione tried to tell herself, reassure, but the more she looked at the shadows, the longer she stared at them, the larger they grew. Undulated and twisted like live serpents.

 _You’re just tired_ , Hermione chanted in her mind, trying to cling to the last bit of reason she had, her stomach cramping and heaving with full-blown panic.

Then, the light went out, plunging her in absolute darkness.

Hermione’s breaths lodged in her throat.

Quickly,  she rolled herself into the middle of her bed and hiked the sheets over her head, as she used to when she was eight and impressionable. She curled into herself to silence the rush of blood flooding her ears in terror.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real—_

Hermione didn’t know how long she stayed that way, in a fetal position. It could have been forever in a moment, stretching on and _on_ until Hermione could only think of her panic, of her hysteria; her exhaustion long forgotten.

 _There are no such things as monsters. They aren’t_ real.

For hours, she laid that way until sleep began to tug and yank at her, her racing mind slowing to a crawl; no longer able to keep up with the thump of her beating heart.

Until, that too, slowed.

The weight of those invisible eyes watching her the last thing that registered on her mind before she was deep in her dreams.

* * *

 

Hermione dreaded whenever the sun set.

The skin crawling sensation of eyes boring into the back of her head had not dissipated since that first night. It blinked into existence the sun was no longer in the horizon, the blinking of the stars above not enough to keep her insides from squirming in distress.

At first, she’d charted it off to her vivid imagination. She knew her mind was a wild one, never once resting even when weighed down by exhaustion. But this burning stare, like fingers carding through her thick hair and sliding down her spine, was something else.

Hermione thought she was losing her mind. Truly.

She knew how terrible stress could be for the body. Having passed out too many times to count when studying for a final exam or working herself to the bone to make sure her friends passed as well. Hermione knew firsthand what sleep deprivation could do.

And yet, this didn’t feel anything like it.

Stress had never made her see shadows that leaned over her when she rested her head against her tub, never made her feel like there were fingers grazing the fat vein in the side of her neck, and _never_ made her see a beautiful man with a heavy dark stare, standing right behind her in the mirror.

Hermione was going crazy, she had to be. None of this could be real, and yet-yet—

Hermione crawled into bed, her nightdress clinging to her like a second skin. She was sweating profusely.

It was an unusually warm day in August, the chill of the night air, for once, absent. It was for that reason alone that she was in a dress and her sheets bunched up at the end of her bed.

She’d never been able to sleep with her skin drenched in a layer of sweat.

Hermione closed her eyes and buried her face into the pillows, her stomach pressing into the bed beneath her. She was like an exposed nerve in this position, dangling from over some precipice she couldn’t see the bottom to, and _gods_ —

She was like a lamb laid out to slaughter.

 _Don’t think about it. Don’t_ think _about it_. _It’s not real._

Swallowing a deep breath, Hermione sank into the bed, tried to steer her thoughts away from those burning eyes, from the fact her nightlight had blinked out of existence the moment she bloody _stepped_ into the room.

_Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it._

She was hyperventilating now, her breaths shallow and fast as terror rolled over her spine like droplets of rain, like the sweat beading over the nape of her neck.

It was too much.

At any moment’s notice, a hand could crawl from beneath her bed. Clawed and monstrous, like a reptilian creature that wanted nothing more than to drag her down and devour her _whole_.

_Breathe._

But there were no hands, no monstrous creatures skulking in the dark. She _knew_ this. All that met her back was cool air. Her ankles were safe, _free_. Her toes pushed deep into the sheets to stave off the air that nipped at the skin.

_Breathe Hermione, just breathe._

She forced herself to relax despite the vivid image of a monster sliding from beneath her bed, body twisted and _wrong_ , with its too red eyes and sharp teeth gleaming with bloodlust and satisfaction.

 _It’s not there_.

Hermione’s heart leaped in her chest when something warm and solid pressed against her backside, sliding from the top of her thigh and up and _up_ to squeeze her arse in a too solid grip. She didn’t move, couldn’t.

_This isn’t real—_

The hand slid against her bottom, firm, as if there were someone actually there and not someone she’d imagined. But that wasn’t possible. The grind of nails raking against her clothed arse, of hot palm and lean fingers sliding against her _—_

She had to have fallen asleep. This was all some vivid dream, some elaborate event she cooked up in her brain to deal with the weeks she’d spent without pleasuring herself, to stressed out to even think about flinging herself over that precipice.

The hand fell away.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t know she was holding, relief making her slump in her bed despite herself—

 _Smack_.

Hermione’s eyes flew open, a yelp burning up her throat at the harsh slap.

 _Did someone just_ smack _my arse?_

The sting spread from both cheeks, made her flush and shuffle, attempt to get off the bed because this couldn’t be bloody happening. Someone— _no something_ —had, in fact, smacked her arse.

Except she couldn’t. Something held her down, bore its weight against her shoulders and lower back. They were like hands, gripping her, restraining her, and Hermione squirmed, struggling against them.

“What the _fuck_?”

There was a beat of silence, the hand resting against her arse kneading and massaging the tingling skin. Hermione’s flooded with heat when a low laugh reverberated above her.

It was as slick as sin, warm and heady.

 _Oh god._  

“Hardly the sort of language suitable for a lady, Hermione.”

That hand slid down her backside, the tips of his fingers now toying with the hem of her nightdress. Hermione’s mind narrowed in on that touch, squirming at the way his finger curled beneath it and tugged it a centimeter up her hips.

Hermione bit her cheek.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” She said between clenched teeth, her heart beating a mile a minute when his fingers began to inch her dress higher, to expose more and more of her skin to the chill of the air.

When she’d first settled into bed all she could think about was dressing as light as possible, knowing well how poorly she did when it was unbearably hot. But now, the air was ice cold. Like winter had breathed into her room and chased away all the heat in the air.

“How rude. At the very _least_ you should know my name,” the man said, her arse cheeks now exposed to the night air. Hermione swallowed back the embarrassment that threatened to choke her.

“You were the one that invited me in, after all.”

Before Hermione could respond, her dress was bunched over her hips, exposing the comfortable knickers to the eyes burning a hole into her skin. She released a long and unsteady breath through her nose, her insides fluttering to life when that hand laid directly over her arse.

_Oh god._

It was so hot and real that there was no question someone was there, that that _man_ had to be in her room with her.

“But I-I didn’t,” Hermione said, fighting the restraints holding her down when that hand squeezed her cheek to the point of pain, as if trying to memorize the feel of her flesh through his hands alone.

“Oh, but you _did_ ,” he said before releasing her arse to slide his hand up the center of her arse, stopping only when the hand reached the hem of her knickers. “It was your _finger_ that was on that planchette, little girl.”

A gasp escaped her, heart racing, when his fingers curved under it and began to drag it down her hips. Hermione bit her tongue hard enough to bleed, the taste of iron exacerbating rather than diminishing the unwanted warmth pooling in her stomach.

“It was your voice that called to me from the other side, your _soul_ that ripped me from hell and into the realm of the living.”

Fingers threading through her thick hair in much the same way the ghostly touches had in the past, and yanked her head up, forcing her to arch her back. Her stomach quivered from the uncomfortable position, a pained sound leaving her when he pulled and bloody _pulled_ until her spine creaked like an old wooden floorboard.

“D-don’t touch me,” Hermione groaned, for once, grateful that it was pitch black in her bedroom, that the nightlight had gone out, because she was burning up. She had to be blushing, could recognize it for what it was, and she didn’t need him to _know_.

She’d sooner bite off her own tongue than show him how much he was affecting her.

“Y-you bloody _perver—”_

Hermione screamed when his hand came down again, a different sort of burn lapping at her arse.

“Language, _Hermione_ ,” the man tutted above her, his voice mocking and grating on her nerves. She wanted nothing more than to bite his goddamn head off. “The insults are unnecessary.”

Hermione swore when his grip tightened on her hair and he rolled her onto her back, the skirt of her dress bunching up her hips and her knickers tangling over her knees. Thick tufts of her hair nearly getting into her mouth.

A shadow was looming above her, but Hermione didn’t need to be able to see him to know, to understand in some part of her that this was the man in the mirror, the figure that touched and prodded at her when deliriously close to sleep.

Hermione’s lip curled into a snarl, jerking and twisting against the weights pressing her down into the bed. It was useless, however. Whatever power he possessed, refused to give her an inch.

“What do you _want_ from me? Why are you doing this? I don’t even believe in _God_ , I don’t understand why _—_ ”

Hermione shut her eyes with a hiss when her bedroom light blinked on on its own, blinding her. Spots of color danced along her vision, her eyes watering from the burn.

A weight settled around her hips, a hand yanking her knickers completely off her shaking legs while she was distracted, while another tugged her up by the collar of her dress, the fabric biting painfully into the back of her neck.

“That is precisely why I am _here_ , sweetheart.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, forcing the spots to die down, to adjust to the light, before she looked up.

Dark eyes were staring back at her, intense and deep and bottomless like an ocean. It drowned her, suffocated her. Like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach, his eyes yanked her by her ankles to the bottom of that sea until all that remained was unfathomable nothingness.

He was single-handedly the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, his eyes tied to a face that artists of the past would weep to paint, to _carve_ into marble to honor his perfection. His hair fell in short waves around his head, long and curled, tousled as if he’d spent much of his time raking through it with his fingers.

Hermione wanted to look away from it, but couldn’t. It was as if she’d been compelled, possessed.

His lips were stretched into a cherubic smile, sweet and decadent, much like the breath now fanning against her face, suffocating her, pulling her under. Hermione’s mouth had gone entirely dry.

“It is because He has no place _here—_ ” he said at the same time the hand clutching her dress fell away to slip between her thighs, to run a tantalizing finger over her mound. Hermione groaned, eyes widening when his finger slid between her lips, teasing at the flesh.

All the air wheezed out of her, the sound of blood rushing through her ears not nearly loud enough to overcome the wet _schlick_ of his fingers parting her, opening her up for his inspection.

“ _—_ that I am here with you now.”

His thumb found her engorged clit, his touch featherlight and fleeting, against it.

Hermione trembled, her insides clenching with desire, trapped by the dark of his gaze, enthralled by the slow smile that spread along his face.

“You have no reason to be afraid, Hermione,” he said, his voice like silk sliding along the skin. “I won’t hurt you.”

Hermione’s spine arched, her eyes rolling to the back of her head when he continued to swipe against her, when a finger abruptly pushed inside her, rubbing against her walls to curl into that blessed spot inside her.

 _Gods, it’s been too long_ …

“In fact, I’d very much like to do the opposite, if you’re amenable.”

Hermione moaned when he forced a second finger inside and stretching her open for him, flooding the quiet of her bedroom with the sound of her wet cunt being stuffed.

Her toes curled from the ecstasy, her fear melting away into a faint murmur in the back of her mind. She didn’t know why she’d been even afraid in the first place.

If _this_ was how he could make her feel, was all that he planned, what was one romp with a ghost? What was the harm in spending the night with a man so willing to pleasure her?

At the push of his thumb against her cunt, insistent, expectant, Hermione stopped thinking.

“Fine, just, fuck me before I have half the mind to regret this.”

Hermione was on her back before she could let out a shuddering breath, his grip on the collar of her dress releasing her entirely.

“As you wish.”

He was on her in seconds, his eyes flashing, as he yanked his fingers from her cunt, the digits sliding into his mouth to taste her, as if he’d been starved and dying to swallow it down.

An embarrassed blush burned up her cheeks,  her eyes unable to tear away from the sight of him sucking on his fingers as rivulets of her fluids dribbled down from his knuckles. It was obscene. It frankly should have disgusted her, with how much she’d been sweating and all but—

Hermione’s insides clenched and unclenched, her heart racing in her chest when he yanked her leg out from beneath his body and spread her open. Her cunt put on full display.

_Oh gods._

Hermione’s blood caught on fire, her eyes falling away from the amused glint in his gaze to the hand now fumbling with his fly, playing with the bit of metal keeping his cock hidden from view.

This was taking too bloody long.

“ _Today_ ,” Hermione complained, spreading her legs wider and throwing him a scowl despite how shaky she felt. The sooner he buried himself in her, the better. That way she didn’t have to think about how his mouth looked wrapped around his fingers, lapping at her juices—

_Come on._

He lifted one brow out her, but didn’t otherwise complain. Without a minute to spare, he was unbuttoning his trousers and sliding the metal zipper down. The sound grated on her nerves, made her question whether it was a great idea to be fucking a _ghost_ , but that thought was quickly dismissed.

For at that moment, he freed his cock from his trousers, its head swollen and red, oozing arousal.

Hermione could only swallow, unable to put thoughts into words. He was bloody _huge_. Too big to be plausible, to possibly fit inside her without causing some form of discomfort.

Hermione tried not to scowl at the smirk he threw in her direction, somehow lifting from her mind what it was she was thinking without her needing to say it.

“Oh, don’t worry. If you’re concerned it won’t _fit_ —”

He pressed closer, lining it up against her wet cunt, teasing at the opening. Her body twitched with each pass of his head against her clit, reminding her again of how delicious it had been to have his thumb trailing over it.

“—I assure you that you’ll be taking every inch of me, _Hermione.”_

A whimper escaped her, her nipples pebbling beneath her dress from the slow, heated glance he raked across her body. His voice made her nerves jump and her skin itch with desire, her hesitation swept away by the desire in his dark eyes.

 _Fuck_.

He dragged her leg atop his shoulder to lay an open-mouthed kiss against it, to taste the sweat still drying on her skin. Hermione opened herself further, desire too potent to be hers, to be _real,_ pushing against her ribs, urging him without saying the words to bury his cock inside her.

“Tom.”

Hermione blinked through the haze, confusion and something like annoyance replacing it.

_What did that even mean?_

“My name. It’s best you become familiar with it now because you will be screaming it rather shortly.”

Then, before she could think to retort with a scathing remark of her own, he was pushing into her, his fat head breaching her cunt and filling her to the point of pain. The words died a quick death in her throat, her mouth opening and closing with a silent scream.

_Christ._

Hermione bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming herself hoarse when he continued to _push_ , and _push_.

A hand slid up between them, his finger finding her clit.

Hermione tightened around his girth, sucking him in deeper inside despite the twinge of pain spreading from between her legs where their bodies connected. She arced into it, shocks of electricity making her toes curl with each push of his finger against her clit.

She wondered how she was going to walk the next day. Hell, that was assuming she could even get _up_ the following morning. She wasn’t sure she could manage more than a crawl.

“God, _Tom,”_ Hermione whined, snapping her head back against the bed when he finally bottomed out and stopped inside her. It’d been some time since she’d been with someone else, but this was bloody ridiculous.

“There is no god, Hermione,” Tom teased before pulling back and thrusting back in, ripping a scream from her lungs this time. His pace was brutal and unforgiving, his hand crushing her thigh over his shoulder as he buried into her over and over again, his thumb rubbing her clit raw. “Not when you have _me._ ”

It was too much, but Hermione didn’t dare beg him to stop, not when that delicious pressure began to build, when Tom turned his head, the corners of his eyes still boring holes into her face, to trail kisses up from her knee, over her calf, and stopping only when her sucked her toe into his mouth.

Hermione rolled her eyes into the back of her head, her hand coming up to muffle her moans and cries. But before she could, an invisible force shoved both her hands back against the pillow, pinning them on either side of her head.

“None of that. I want to hear you _scream_.”

A choked sob left her when he released her leg to slide his crook his finger into the collar of her gown and tear it straight down the middle. The fabric gave easily. As if it were nothing more than paper.

The sting of her dress coming apart didn’t register, not when his hand found her nipple and pinched it hard between his fingers. She arched into the touch, relishing in the pleased hum of his voice and the way his hair clung to his sweaty forehead, the waves becoming more chaotic. Unruly.

He looked more demon than man, his eyes now deep and fathomless as he watched her come apart beneath him. It should have frightened her, how easily he could make her insides squirm and burn, but didn’t. Not when he was fucking her into this mattress, when his thumb was circling across her clit without any sign of letting up, and tearing strangled sounds from her throat.

“Please,” Hermione choked, cried out, unsure of what she was even asking for when his touches became brutal, his nails raking against her breast and ribs until they stung. “Oh fuck, don’t _stop_.”

Tom didn’t need to be told twice, he increased his pace, his hand finally leaving her breast to wrap around her throat, to curl his fingers over her racing pulse and squeeze.

Hermione clenched around him in retaliation, crushing him inside, relishing in the lightheadedness that overcame her almost instantly.

“Oh, I think I _will_ keep you after all,” Tom groaned above her, his hips stuttering and jerking with less precision as before. Hermione wasn’t about to complain, however. Not when he angled his cock, inched it slightly to the right and—

Tom’s fingers pinched her clit, and Hermione was falling, falling, _falling_ into her climax, a scream wrenched out of her throat.

She was dizzy with it, crushed by the weight of Tom’s hands choking her, milking her dry of all that she had as he fucked her, pistoned into her with little regard to her oversensitivity. Hermione was crying now, struggling against the invisible restraints to get him off, to get his fingers away from her damn _clit_ —

Then, heat bloomed inside her, spreading into her. It was endless, that heat. It was so much that Hermione didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t know what to do as it dribbled inside her thighs, scalded her insides like a brand on delicate flesh.

It took her too long to realize that it was Tom reaching his release.

He released his grip on her neck after a torturous eternity, his thumb falling away from her clit, finally giving her the chance to breathe, to relax and sink into the haze of her own mind-blowing orgasm.

Then, with a snap of his hips, Tom’s cock pulled out of her, their fluids gushing out from between her quivering thighs.

Hermione didn’t move when he rolled beside her, the weight of the restraints finally vanishing into nothing.

She was too tired to move, her body too spent to even think to fight when he dragged her into his arms, her chest pressed against his.

“That was—” Hermione swallowed, unable to put to words just how amazing that was, her mind racing with horror and satisfaction. If she’d known that fucking a ghost would be this lovely, she’d have done it sooner.

Well, maybe not sooner, but that wasn’t the point. She’d at least been a little less terrified in the previous weeks.

“Lovely, no?” Tom supplied for her, his hand trailing over her stomach before sliding lower to cup her sex, to part her lips and plunge inside her tight heat.

Hermione jerked, ready to protest, but it quickly died in her throat when Tom leaned in, eyes burning bright red with thin pupils dead at their center. Hermione went mute.

“What? Did you think we were _finished_?” Tom purred, his fingers hooking into her cunt and finding that spot that made her cry out, jerk and writhe in his hold. All in rapid succession.

“W-wait, Tom—”

“One little orgasm is hardly a snack for my kind. You can’t pretend to make me dine only the warmth of your cunt.”

Hermione squirmed and mewled in his arms, his words like terrifying little needles in the back of her mind.

_My kind._

_My kind._

Tom slid his body lower and lower, inching his way down with a grin so wide Hermione could barely stand the sight of it. She lifted her hands, to try to fight him off, to do _something_ , but her hands were like useless weights on her sides. Her muscles protested, outright refused to heed her commands.

 _No_.

Tom pushed her into the bed, his hand splaying over his stomach as he wedged himself between her quivering thighs, his shoulders keeping them wide open.

_Oh god._

All the color drained from her face at the look of utter delight and rabid hunger on his face, at the sight of a long and forked tongue sliding out of his mouth to lick his lips. It was monstrous. He was like the devil, a bloody _demon—_

Realization hit her like a slap to the face.

_Oh gods._

Tom wasn’t a ghost, had _never_ been.

“You’re a demon,” Hermione heard herself say, not quite believing the words or the direction her mind had gone.

Tom smiled at her, teeth long and white, incisors so wide they could cut through flesh with just a clench of his jaw. Hermione tried not to shudder, too terrified say anything more lest she invite him to do something violent.

Not when his mouth was level with her cunt, his breath fanning against the skin. If there was a time for Hermione to hold her tongue, it was now.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

He pried her legs wider, his lips inching closer to her cunt. His lips featherlight against her.

“I don’t understand, don’t demons devour souls not-not—” Hermione waved her hand at him, gesturing to where his face was pressed up against her.

“Perhaps your standard demons, but _I—_ ” Tom kissed her between her legs, close-lipped. Hermione squealed, her hands coming up to her face to cover her face when he _sniffed_ her, his eyes flashing up at her with what was unmistakably a playful gleam.

It was both the most disgusting and arousing sight she’d ever seen.

“I devour desire, I consume lust, and I drink want.”

Tom spread her legs wider, digging his elbows into both of her thighs to stop her from trying to close them or, better yet, crushing his head between her thighs. She squirmed when the hand not gripping her thigh for dear life, trailed up the skin of her leg to finally settle over her lips.

There was a low laugh, one that made the hairs on the back of her neck on end, and then he was parting her open, revealing parts of her she herself had never gotten such a close look at.

Hermione closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of him between her legs any longer.

She wanted to melt into the bed and never be found. Just the thought of what he was seeing. Hell, just imagining what it was that he saw there made her want to scream into an echo chamber until she couldn’t anymore.

“I only feast on sexual energy, and yours, my Hermione—”

Tom's tongue found her clit, and she jerked, gasping and squirming when he swiped it against her opening and pulled back.

Hermione’s eyes opened despite everything urging her not to look.

“—is simply mouthwatering.”

**Author's Note:**

> What this whole thing is based on, if you're curious.
> 
>  


End file.
